


Glas Arnoediad

by Adlanth



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, B2MEM14, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:04:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1669010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adlanth/pseuds/Adlanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Let us think that at this midwinter the feast shall be merrier than in all our years yet, with a fearless spring to follow after!” (<i>The Children of Húrin</i>.)</p>
<p>After the battle of Glas Arnoediad, in which the Union of Maedhros triumphed over Morgoth, Húrin returns to Dor Lómin, Morwen, and their children.</p>
<p>Written for B2MEM 14.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glas Arnoediad

**Author's Note:**

> Glas Arnoediad = joy beyond count.

The hosts of the house of Hador are gone. Mid-summer comes, and on that day all in Dor Lómin - all those who were left behind after the mustering of the armies of Elves and Men, the very old and the very young, and most women – are silent.

They listen. The day is very long. Yet no news come, no echo of the war that unfolds and rages in the North, on broad Anfauglith. In Dor Lómin they sit and wait. It is the day of highest summer, Morwen thinks, and from that high point they must be hurled into darkness, or elso into – into what she, a child of the Bragollach, can scarcely imagine.

She goes to sit before the doors of her house, and Túrin follows her. Never a playful child, he is more silent now than ever. He lays a hand on her shoulder, as if he were a grown man and the one to comfort her, but it trembles, and it is she who reaches up and clasps his hand with her stiller one.

Shadows lengthen across the court and overspread it. The world grows golden, but for once no birds sing at sunset, as if all winged things had also been called to the war. Night comes, and none of them sleep.

Then days go by. They must return to their ordinary lives: bake bread, take the cattle to the fields, milk cows and goats; cut down wood for their ovens and fires; spin and weave. It will be like this, Morwen thinks: we shall trudge on in spite of hardship. I shall miss him more and more – but still guard what he has left in my keeping. What is and what shall be. She lays her hand on her stomach, flat though it still is, thinking of their farewell.

They wait. And word begins to reach them, of a battle greater than any the world has ever seen; that raged on for days, weeks. They brace themselves for the worst.

Then, on a day at the end of summer, they hear of a great host coming into Hithlum, pouring in from the North; then into Dor Lómin. Morwen girds herself with the sword that Baragund gave her when she was a girl and must flee from the fires of Dagor Bragollach. She remembers the burning pines of Dorthonion, how they seemed to writhe in the flames, and the hosts of the Enemy that rose darkly upon the slopes... She has lived through that; perhaps she shall live through this which is coming also. She brings Túrin to his bed, though she knows he will not sleep. His eyes are wide with fear. She does not go to her rooms, but sits beside the doors throughout the night, her sword upon her knees.

Hours go by; then, in the east, the sky, which is very clear, begins to fill with light. Birdsong rises from among the trees. A rustling sound spills from the woods - leaves in the wind, or the coming of the Northern host. The sun appears above the mountains of Mithrim; the woods are ablaze with young sunlight. She hears the sound of hooves upon the ground, thundering, or as a great wave rising - rising, rising, towards her. At last they come into the court.

The foremost rider comes up to her, leaps from his saddle, not a yard from her. He takes the last step, embraces her.

‘Lady of Dor Lómin,’ Húrin says. Then, softer, for her only. ‘Eledhwen. Morwen. I have returned to you.’

*

They live on: summer and autumn and winter, in the days beyond Glas Arnoediad. At mid-winter they hold the feast that Húrin had promised. All who will are invited to their house. Húrin and Morwen sit in the high chairs that Sador carved; and as night falls Aerin walks about the hall, firing the many fires that will cook the meat and warm the guests, and many candles too so they may feast through the night.

They eat and drink and sing. The warriors tell of their great deeds, and at their bidding Húrin stands and tells his part yet again: how he swung his axe, calling out each time ‘Aurë entuluva! Auta i lomë!’; how a great tide of foes rose against him; how he feared the night might fall after all… and yet how he went on fighting, and so won the day. Morwen watches him as he tells the tale, his golden hair like a flame in the candlelight; at his feet Túrin sits listening.

When most of the night is spent, they retire to their chamber. Dim echoes of the feast, filtering through the wooden walls, reach them. Morwen, now heavy with her child, lowers herself to the bed, and reclines on the pillow. Húrin sits beside her, one arm about her shoulders, the hand of the other laid on her belly, waiting to see if the child might kick, as it has begun to do in recent days.

When they are alone, he is not so quick to jest and make light of the battle. He is no less joyful, but it is a quieter joy. And she sees now that he seems weary, as if in telling his great deeds he had been worn down again, and for the first time she discerns lines at the corner of his eyes and mouth. But these do not make her sad – tender, rather, and she traces them with a finger. For once he is silent, and barely moves; he merely looks on her, as if with slowly growing wonder – as if in all the days since his return, he had not truly believed in the victory he himself promised.

*

Their daughter is born in the winter, a late-comer, uneager to leave the womb. And yet, child of mine, Morwen thinks (the infant resting upon her breast, Húrin asleep on a great chair by the bed, Túrin on his lap) the time has never been more fair. Warmer days will be upon them very soon; there is a haze of green upon the trees, and so Nethlas is what they call their daughter: young leaf, for the bright spring ahead.

*

When she is three, golden-haired and quick to laugh like her father, Túrin takes her to play by the stream. Morwen, when she sees this, feels her heart clench in her chest. Foolish boy, she nearly says to her son, you cannot bring her back. But when Túrin returns, he looks at her straight. His gaze is unusually bright, his cheeks unusually warm, perhaps from having run after Nethlas - but he is solemn also, and she knows that he understands; that he knows the loss can never be redressed; that though Nethlas is joy she is not consolation.

Still, he brings his sister to play near the grave by the stream. Not to replace – her - but perhaps to keep her company, where she lies beneath the reeds.

*

And Nethlas grows, ever like her father, and a wonder to him – this daughter he might never have seen. Together they go riding, racing each other through the woods. For her boldness, the people of Dor Lómin name her Arachas, which is fearless. Aye, and the world in which she was born is beyond fear also, and her daughter need never be as Morwen once was. Sometimes Túrin goes with them, or wanders to the south, as if drawn to the great Elven kingdoms there. But often, still, though nearing manhood, he stays beside his mother, and carves wood as Sador has taught him. He is guarded still, like his mother.

Some day, Húrin says, they shall all go among the Noldor he loves so dearly: to Barad Eithel, Nargothrond, and even Gondolin, flower of the Elven cities, to which Húrin came in secrecy before the war, but which now lies open to all. There the deeds of the Edain are held in high esteem, and Túrin and Nethlas shall be loved and honoured as well as any Elven princes.

Aye - some day. For now Morwen sits in the courtyard, her sewing upon her lap. By her side Túrin works in silence. Soon it will be evening, and they will hear the sound of hooves, and Túrin will leap to his feet, casting his chisel down, and he will greet Húrin and Nethlas as they ride up.

Glas Arnoediad, she murmurs to herself. We were not conquered.


End file.
